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Ienedict Irnold, 

TJ4E TRAITOR. 



WMr^rviAM johnson. 

An Historical Drama, 

RELATING OF THE 

TREASON OF BENEDICT ARNOLD, 

AND HIS DEATH. 



COPYRIGHT 

180) . 



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Ben edict Irnold, 

THE TRAITOR. 



wiivivi^vivx johivsoiv, 



An Historical Drama, 



RELATING OF THE 



TREASON of BENEDICT ARNOLD, 



AND HIS DEATH. 



1H 



COPYRIGHT 

liSWl. 



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CHARACTERS. 

.^1 



GEN'L GEO. WASHINGTON, Commander-in-Chief of 

the American Army. 
GENERAL BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
MAJOR JOHN ANDRE. 
SIR HENRY CLINTON, Commander of the British Forces 

in New York. 
GENERAL MARQUIS de LAFAYETTE. 
GENERAL KNOX. 

MRS. MARGARET SHIPPEN ARNOLD. 
MISS BETSY SHIPPEN. 
ANNIE, a Maid of Mrs. Arnold's. 
MARY, an old woman. 
JOSHUA SMITH. 
BEVERLY ROBINSON 
COLONEL HAMILTON. 
CAPTAIN SUTHERLAND. 
JOHN PAULDING. 
DAVID WILLIAMS. 
ISAAC VAN WART. 
SAMUEL COLQUHOUN. 
JOSEPH COLQUHOUN. 
LIEUTENANT ALLEN. 
DOCTOR PHYSIC, a Doctor of Medicine. 
DOCTOR COMFORT, A Minister of the Gospel. 
A SAILOR. 
A BOY. 
A GUARD. 
SOLDIERS, MESSENGERS. SAILORS, GUARDS, etc. 



TMP96-006487 



Benedict Arnold the Traitor. 



ACT I. 



Scene I. — A room in Sir Henry Clinton's headquarters. 
Sir Henry Clinton and Andre present. 

And. But, Sir Henry, I beg your pardon ; 
I hope you will not persuade me 
To do anything dishonorable. 

Clint. Now, Andre, you come to the point. 
Indeed to the extreme limit of it, 
In all of its nicety and fineness. 
To be honorable about it, I must say, 
That some would consider it dishonorable, 
While others would not. But we should not 
Make too fine a point of difference 
In such a question as this, the time, 
Circumstances, and everything else considered. 
You may remember the saying, 
" All is fair in love and war;" 
Well, Andre, if you think it possible 
To your sense of reasoning to follow it, 
I would have you act on that poetical suggestion. 

And. Sir Henry, what would you have me do ? 

Clint. He writes me here, in this letter 

That he desires — to use his own words — 
A man of his own mensuration to properly 
Assist him in this business. By that, of course. 
He meant a man both worthy of him 
And the occasion, which is very great in its intent 
And bearing on the time that calls it forth ; 
And must be greatly met with, and promptly 
And emergently, lest it slip from our grasn 
And we lose it forever. And, Andre, 
I bethought myself on the instant of you, 
And had made up my mind that I 
Would select you as the man. 

And. You do me great honor, Sir Henry. 

Clint. Nay, Andre, if you accept my proposition, 
'Tis you that do me honor, as well 
As you do honor to your country. 



4 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT. 1. 

If I can ease your mind any, I'll say 

I do not think it dishonorable, 

Though I confess 'tis very dangerous. 
And. I do not mind the danger, Sir Henry. 

I assure you now, I promise you, 

I will go. 
Clint. Very well, then ; I will write to him 

And tell him I have selected you 

As the man, and will reqest him 

To continue the correspondence with you. 

Until you have completed the matter between you; 

That which he may propose, and that 

Which we may accept with honor 

And satisfaction to ourselves. I am very grateful 

To you, my dear Andre, that you will engage 

In this business. 
And. Nay, Sir Henry, I thank you 

That you entrust me with this matter, 

And I will do all in my power 

To deserve your thanks, as well as his majesty's. 
Clint. I do not doubt it. 

Come, we will consider further of this. Exeunt. 

Scene II. — On the Hudson and the Vulture. Enter a boat 

with Smith, Joseph, and Samuel Colquhoun. 
Smith. Easy, boys, easy ; pull a little stronger, 

But make as little noise as possible. 

We have not yet been seen, and a little more 

Of this rowing will put us alongside 

Of the vessel. Steady, boys, more steady, 

And easy. 
Sam. See the ship's dark shadow on the water! 

How like a huge leviathan of the sea 

She aprears to me to be. 
Smith. If I can once get within that shadow 

Without being seen, I can easily clamber up 

The ship's side and make known my message. 
Jos. If its all right, let's signal her 'fore 

We get alongside, or they might send 

A shot at us, which, you know, 

Would be rather disagreeable, to say the least, 

Especially if they were any way good shots. 
Smith. No fear of that, Joe. 
Sailor- Boat ahoy, boat ahoy ! 
Smith- They see us, boys. Pull steady now, 

And bring her alongside in a jiffy. 
Sailor. Ho there! ho there ! who are you, 

And whither bound ? 
Smith. We are from King's Ferry, and on 

Our way to Dobb's Ferry. 



Scene I.] benedict aknold the traitor. 5 

Sailor. What in the devil do you mean 

By presuming to approach his majesty's ship 

Under cover of darkness? Come along side, 

Come more alongside, and I'll see who you are, 

And where you are going. What are you 

Doing here this time of the night? 

Freebooters, thieves, night-prowlers, spie's, mebbe 

On some desperate venture. Oh, we'll spy you now; 

Don't be afraid of that. Come up, come up ; 

I'll bet you are up to no good, 

As sure as my names Jack Robinson. 
(Smith clambers up the ship's side). 

Now I have you ; now I'll take you 

Where you can give an account of yourself. 

You're in a line net now, ain't you, 

My pretty fish? 
Smith. We meant no harm, sailor. 

Where's the Captain ? 

Enter a boy on the deck 
Boy. The Captain's orders is, the men 

Be shown into the cabin. 

(Smith and the boy go into the cabin, which is visible 
to the audience, where Colonel Robinson and 
Captain Sutherland are present). 
Re-enter Smith. 
Smith. The goodness of the night on you, sir. 

Who are you ? and where from ? 
Smith. Are you the Captain ? 
Suth. Yes, sir. 
Smith. Well, I am Joshua Smith, and from General 

Arnold. 
Suth. Ah. indeed ! what is your business ? 

Or rather, is your business with me ? 
Smith. My business is with Colonel Robinson. 

If I mistake not this gentleman is he. 
Rob. Yes, sir, I am Colonel Robinson. 
Smith. I thought I knew you, sir. 

Well, sir, here's a letter from General Arnold, 

That he told me to give you. 

(Robinson goes aside and reads the letter.) 
Jos. Say, Sam, it's devlish cold down here. 

I wish the old man would hurry up. 

This ain't no snap down here 

I can tell you. 
Sam. No, that it ain't. 

This is a regular old sou'wester. 

I would give one day of my interest 

In heaven if I had something to stimulate me. 
Jos. I wouldn't mind going to hell just for 

A little minute if I had a bracer. 



6 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT. I. 

Sam. I always told you you'd go to hell 

For liquor, and I don't doubt it now 

In the least but what you would. 
Suth Well, Colonel, is it all right ? 
Rob. Yes. 
Smith Here are two other papers 

That the General also requested me to deliver to 
you. 
[Robinson goes aside and reads them also) 
Smith This is a good ship. Captain, 

That you command, strong and well built, 

And one, I should say, pretty hard to sink. 
Suth. You may well say that, sir, 

And with good judgment ; she is indeed 

A good ship, one of England's staunchest 

And truest that ever sailed the mighty main ; 

One never contented unless sporting in her element, 

And one that can swim like a tish 

And is inured to all the sea's mischances. 

God bless you, sir, I love this old ship better 

Than I do myself. I'd far rather go down 

Than see her sink. 
Smith. How long have you followed the sea, Captain? 

If I am not too inquisitive. 
Suth. Not at all, sir. 
Rob. One moment, Captain, if you please. 

Permit me to leave you for awhile, 

While I make ready for the General's business. 

I will return to you in a moment. 
Suth. Certainly, Colonel, take your pleasure, 

I will try to interest Mr. Smith, while you are 
absent. [Exit Robinson. 

You asked me how long I followed the sea. 

Fifty years, sir, fifty year coming next fall; 

And I hope my old hulk may be good 

For many years more. 
Smith. I hope so. 
Suth. Here comes Colonel Robinson in company 

With another gentleman. 

{Re-enter Robinson with Andre.) 
Rob. Mr. Smith, allow me to introduce to you 

Mr. John Anderson, the man whom 

I have decided to employ in this business. 
Smith. I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. 

Anderson. 
And. The happiness is mutual, sir. 
Rob. So you will go, notwithstanding this? 
And. Even so : I will go and right away. 

Come let me go : if it must be done, 

It must be done ; and if I must do it. 



Scene II.] benedict arnold the traitor. ' 

I must do it. It must be done sometime, 

So it is best to do it rigbt away, 

And be done with it for good and all. 

I will do it now or never. 

Come, let us make baste, for I am anxious 

To get over witb it all. 
Rob. You see, Captain, he is all excitement, 

And nothing can stay him now from going. 

His eagerness makes him regardless of all danger. 
And. There is no danger that I fear. 

Come, let me go. and I'll show you 

That it'll come out all right. 
Rob. Very well; it is best. 

Mr. Anderson, see that you attend to the business 
properly, 

And you'll have my everlasting gratitude. 
And. I'll attend to it, sir, to the best 

Of my ability. I can not do more. 
Rob. Well, I think that every thing is now ready, 

To set off. 
Suth. Row the boat a little more alongside 

Of the vessel down there, so that 

These two gentlemen can get into it. 
Sam. All right, all right. 

Smith. Well, good night, Captain. Good night, Colonel. 
And. Good night to you both, gentlemen. 

I expect to be back before morning ; 

So be on the lookout for me. 
Suth. All right, all right. Good night, gentlemen. 

\Exeun t 

ACT II. 

Scene. — A Room in Smith's House. 
Enter Margaret and Betsy. 

Mar. Well, Betsy, how are you enjoying yourself here 
on your visit ? I hope you are having a good 
time. Of course this is not a place like a large 
city to have a good time in, but then it has its 
advantages, too. We cannot go to balls, parties 
and theatres here, as we can in the city, but then 
we can take strolls and make excursions out here 
into the mountains and the forests, and admire 
nature and her handiwork direct from her own 
hands, which is to me more delightful than the 
pleasures of the city. 

Betsy. I promise you. Peggy, I am having a delightful 
time. I do not think I could ever tire of this 
place, it is so lovely. I promise you I will not 



8 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT II. 

close iuy visit very soon but will stay with 
you here until I tire you so that you will give 
me a hint it is time I were going home. 

Mar. Well, I hope not, Betsy. You will stay here a 
long time before I ever give you such a hint. 
And it has been a surprise to me, Betsy, that 
you are not yet married. ;You are still Betsy 
Shippen, I see, and have not yet changed your 
name. What have become of all those beaux you 
used to write to me about ? Were they faint- 
hearted, or are you a fickle maiden, so very hard to 
please ? 

Bet. I have them still in my train, Peggy. They fol- 
me about like so many sheep do a wether. There 
have been several of them, too, who have asked 
me to change my name to theirs, but the right 
one has not asked me yet. I have an eye on one 
of them, though ; he had better not ask me to 
marry him, if he doesn't mean it, for I'll be bound 
to accept him so quick that it will make his heart 
leap into his throat, if he thinks he can escape 
me. 

Mar. Well, I hope, with all my heart, if you love him, 
that he will ask you for your maiden hand. 

Bet. He will, Peggy; don't be afraid of that; it only 
takes time ; they all come to it at last ; not a 
one can hold out longer than a six month, if I am 
of a mind that they shall not. But, Peggy, how 
are you, and married life agreeing ? Of course, I 
needn't ask you, for I can see that you are as hap- 
py as can be 

Mar. Yes, indeed, I am. I think I have the best 
husband living. 

Bet. Oh, of course, no doubt about it; that's what all 
women say about their husbands ; but I think my- 
self that your husband is as good to you as he 
can be. But don't you think, Peggy, to be a little 
more sober, that he has changed from what he 
used to be? so at least it seems to me. I suppose 
it is this war business of his though that is the 
cause of it. 

Mar. Why, Betsy, I do not think that he has changed 
any ; at least not to me ; he'll always be the same 
to me ; you cannot say that he will change to me. 
Why, Betsy, of course we all change. A man or 
woman's humor either can not be the same all the 
time. It's bound to change with age and time, 
just as our persons are. We can not remain the 
same ; we must change. Its a law of nature, and 
nature's law must be obeyed, whatsoever else may 



.SCEXE II.] BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. 9 

happen. Here he conies. And now, Betsy, don't 
cross him, whatever yon do, for if he is not in a 
good humor, what's the use of crossing him and 
only making him in a worse one. Xo good at all ; 
indeed, the worst of all. 

Enter Arnold. 

Am. Well, Peggy, I dare say you expect to see a 
cross husband now, but I will fool you this time, 
and be as good as the proverbial Abel. 

Ma?-. I am glad to see you in such a good humor : 
nothing delights me more than to see you so; 1 
like to see everyone in a good humor, yet even 
that in time, I suppose, would tire me like every- 
thing else : 1 crave variety. 

Am. Well, then, to be various with you, I'll be cross 
again; and first I'll begin on you. Now, then, 
vain woman, if you ever do again what you did 
last night, just as I wanted to go to sleep, I will — 
I will- 
Ma?-. You will, you will, what will you do ? 

Arn. 1 will — I will — well I will be cross. 

Mar. You big old bear, you, if you are cross, so much 
the better, if you will only hug me, for I'ld love 
to be hugged to death by you. 

Am. Ah, Peggy, this is no time for hugging. Wait 
until to-night, and then I'll hug you all you de- 
sire. And, Betsy, how a^e you and Peggy mak- 
ing it? I say, Betsy, take eare you say nothing 
against me, for my dear Peggy'll not allow it; she 
is yet head over ears in love with her benedict. 
Are you not, Peggy ? Alas, that I should have 
entrapped my Peggy so completely ! What, dear 
me, do you see in me so fascinating? 

Mar. Just hear how he talks, Betsy. If you knew 
how he doats on me, more than any old man ever 
did on a young bride. I doat on him, ah, he 
doats on me, and never was such doating before, 
as you can see. 

Am. But why do you doat so much on me, Peggy ? 
Because you can't help it, don't you see, Peggy ? 

Mar. That's right; tell all my private affairs to my 
sister, that she can plague me with 'em. You do 
it. I know you do it, merely to show my weak- 
ness, woman's proverbial weakness under their 
liege lord's bondage and sovereignty. Ah, Betsy, 
you should have heard him woo me — you'd have 
blushed for poor humanity — even so weak as that 
is — to have seen him, when he swore that he loved 
me ten thousand times more I could ever love 
him, and asked me to have pity on his misery, 



10 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT. II. 

else he would die a languishing and miserable 
death, or something at least he said to that effect. 
And see now how he requites me ! how he mocks 
me for my foolish weakness, which makes me as 
weak and foolish as a baby. O, dear Cupid, I wish 
you had not hit me so hard, at least not so hard 
that you keep me forever felled, and hardly ever 
will let me get up from my humiliating position. 
Ah, dear me, you do not know what pain and 
anguish you have caused me this many a day. 

Am. Well if she does not doat, 1 am a rascal. But 
come 1 must be alone now. You two had better 
leave me. 

I am to hold a private interview here 
With a gentleman on important business, 
Which immediately I must attend to. 

Mar Come, Betsy, let's go then, 

We are too foolish to meddle with state affairs. 
We leave you, husband, to your pleasure. 

[Exeunt Margaret and Betsy. 

Am. Beautiful Peggy ! how I do love her, 
And her alone ! and when with her 
It seems, all my better nature aw r akens, 
And nothing possesses me but love and goodness 
For her. What if by following the course 
I now am I shall be doing her a harm. 
She is the only being in this world 
That I love, and to do her a harm 
Would be doing me more harm 
Than anything that I know of. 
Ah me ! what if my doing here 
Will bo her undoing ? But enough of this ; 
I must not think of such things. 
Love's out of the question now, 
And Hatred, Passion and Vengeance must now 
Come in full play. Hatred urge me on, 
Passion kindle in me a flame of fire ; 
And Vengeance keep it burning so 
That it may never slumber but ever be 
Awake to wreck destruction on the 
Accursed country I am now about to betray. 
I would I had never turned a hand 
For my accursed country. Yet I bled for it. 
My leg is not yet quite well. 
May God shrivel it to a sapling 
If ever again I fight for it. 

Curse you, my country, I wish I could destroy you 
At one fell sweep, and hurl you to utter destruc- 
tion. 
I wonder w T hat Andre can be waiting for ; 



Scene II.] benedict arnold the traitor. 11 

Why does he not come ? I am all excitement, 
As a man about to do a cursed deed, 
I cannot rest in peace another moment. 
Until I have finished this accursed business. 

Enter Andre. 
Ah, Andre, you have come at last. 
Well, here within the shelter of this spacious house, 
We can find a snug retreat in some hidden chamber, 
From all prying persons, and transact our business 
With perfect safety, and at our ease and leisure. 
Now you may be at ease with yourself; 
We have the whole day before us 
Wherein to finish the rest of this bussiness. 
And. Would that we had finished it at the landing! 
And that I could have left last night, 
When now I might be safely stowed within the 

Vulture. 
I can not be at ease, 
Ever since I crossed into your lines, 
Which has given me intimation how easy 'tis 
For me to be captured if I should be suspected. 
I rode along with you at first with cheerful spirits, 
As one might, not fearing any danger, and not 
Until I heard the sentinel commanding the coun- 
tersign 
Did I think of the danger I was running into. 
Now I must confess I cannot be at 
My ease, even though under your care. 
Am. You are perfectly safe with me, 
So put off all notions of fear. 
I will manage to make you as comfortable 
As possible while you make your abode 
Within our lines. 

(A cannonading is heard without.) 

And. Hark ! what is that? how like 

A dreadful peal of thunder that follows 

The lightning in a thunderstorm is that detonation! 

What cannonade is that down the river 

That makes such an echo in these hills ? 

Is it against the Vulture? Oh, let me see! 

Am. Even so ; it is against the Vulture. 

Look out of the window and you can see. 

And. I see it plainly now, and it fills 
My heart with anxious emotion. 
Would that I were only on board 
That they might sooner move down the river 
Out of the reach and danger of the canon shot ; 
For now I think they are awaiting me, 



12 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT. II. 

And therefore are unwilling to change their posi- 
tion. 

Am. No danger of that ; 

For 'tis now too late to expect you ; 

And there's also no danger for her, 

For the firing has compelled her to move 

From the position she held during the night, 

And she is dropping further down the river, 

Until now she is beyond the reach of shot. 

And. Thank God! the firing has at last ceased. 

Am. Yes, so come, and now resume 

Your wonted spirits and composure. 

And. I confess I was very anxious, indeed, almost 
frightened. 
But consider the circumstances I am now placed in, 
Which makes me think I have good cause to be. 
But even though I may be frightened at times — 
Even the bravest of men may be frightened at 

times — 
Do not think I am necessarily a coward : 
Only when I am taken unawares, 
Then am I sometimes frightened, 
But only for a moment — it soon passes away. 

Am. Well then now to business. 
Here then are all the papers, 
All about which I explained to you 
Some little while ago. 

And. And now I have them all 

Within the grasp of my fingers, 
These papers in themselves are worth untold for- 
tunes; 
Fame, glory and renown. Everything is now 
As well as done, if 1 can only deliver them 
Into the right hands. 

Am. True, Andre, never before did I compromise my- 
self by papers. 
I always held that papers should never be written 
Which at some time might make the writer blush 
Or put him in danger. But now you have 
All these papers, which if found on you 
Will compromise us both, branding you 
As a spy, and me as a traitor, 
And from which we can not come off 
But with our lives. 
Andre, be careful of them ! 
Preserve them as the jewel of your eye ; 
And defend them if necessary with your life. 
They are as precious to us as virtue 
And beauty to a woman ; health to 
A sick man and breath to life ; 



Scene II.] benedict arnold the traitor. 13 

They are as perilous as wine, women and gambling 

are; 
And as dangerous as a woman's smile or tear, 
Or caress, or anything that she may use 
To ruin you, if she would ; 
So defend them with your life, and make him 
Who tries to take them from you 
Walk over your dead body 
Before he may accomplish it. 

And. I will, Arnold, I will, so help me God. 

I will defend them with my life, my soul, my honor, 
With all the strength God has endowed me, 
And with all my zeal for my King's service. 
When they are taken from me, then boldly say 
Andre is dead, Andre is no more on earth, 
But his soul has taken flight 
To far off and unknown regions, 
From which he can never more return. 

Am. I believe you truly think you would do 
What you say, but man at best is weak. 
And ever promises to do more than he is able. 
Not that I say, that it is not your intention, 
Nor either that you are not able to defend them — 
But still let me again caution you 
That to lose them ruins everything most possible 
now. 

And. I know it ; therefore. I'll take good care. 

Am. Now, Andre, you will soon quit me, 

Perhaps we will never see one another again. 

Who knows. I am sure I do not 

We do not know what may happen to-day, 

While to-morrow, or day after; ah, Andre, 

We do not know what may happen at any moment, 

But it is as unknownable as the unknowable. 

Now, we can only trust in our good luck. 

As the gambler or the speculator does; 

So I will say to you. Andre, I wish 

You good luck. 

And, I will pray to my lucky star 

That I may succeed. If she proves 
To me unlucky now, I'll never hope 
For luck again. 

Am. Ah, Andre, 'tis done at last. At last, at last, 
My dream is now about to become true. 
For many nights have I dreamed of this ; 
For many days have I pondered, 
While walking on these gloomy banks, 
Of all this which we have at last finished. 
At last, I about to be revenged. 
Sweet revenge, as sweet as the hope of heaven. 



14 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT. IT. 

Oh Heaven, grant me but this appeal, 

If never again thou listenest or favorest me. 

Oh, my wrongs have long cried out to be revenged. 

Now I thank heaven I am about to succeed. 

My country has long driven me to this course ; 

Now she may thank herself for what happens. 
And. That's what she may. 

She has been an ingrate to you, 

And I don't blame you for doing 

What you do. 
Am. I did love my country at one time, Andre, 

As heaven is my witness I did. 

I fought for her, too, as you yourself 

May have heard. I risked my life for her, too, 

Though I never did hold it of much account. 

Perhaps it would have been better 

Had I been killed while fighting for her ; 

That would have been a soldier's death at least ; 

An honorable death. And now heaven only knows 

What a death I am doomed for. 

I may yet live to die on the gallows, 

Or to be shot down to death : 

That would be the doom no doubt 

That I would merit, if I should be caught 

In this business. Oh, it seems to me 

That when I look at it calmly, 

That this is a terrible business 

That I am now in. 
And. But, Arnold, listen — you don't — 
Am. No, Andre, I hazard my all on this cast. 

My wife, my dear and lovely wife ; 

My child, my little baby boy, 

Who will learn to lisp the name of traitor, 

And to despise his own father ; 

My wife, my child, my all, I throw 

To the wide winds to gratify my passion. 

God ! now I begin to see how Nemesis 
Might pursue me ; now I feel 

That I pay for my revenge 

With my dear heart's blood. I think 

1 know and see how all will turn out ; 
I feel now as if I should turn back : 

I will find myself dishonored and unloved : 
Not a man in the world will pity me, 
But everyone will turn against me, 
My name will be the most dishonored one 
Of all. I will be alone, alone, quite alone, 
In this wide, wide world, without a country, 
If we fail. O God ! what if we should fail. 
And. Why, Arnold, what is the matter with you ? 



Scene III.] benedict arnold the traitor. 15 

We shall not fail ; we can not fail. 

For heaven's sake, man, what has come over you? 

You are not yourself. Come, be a man : 

Do not be childish, but brace up 

And be a man. 
Am. True, I was not myself. 

I do not know how this weakness came over me. 

This is the first time that I ever felt 

Such weakness ; it all seemed to come 

To me of a sudden. I don't know how. 

But come, I am over with it now. 

1 am myself again. 
And. Thank heaven that you are; 

T was becoming fearful of you. 

Well, we all have our moments of weakness ; 

And this must have been one of yours. 

But come, let's get ready. I am 

All impatience to begin my journey. 
Am. Very well then, come ; 

I'll start you on your journey. 

[ am ashamed of myself that I allowed myself 

To have been so weak. I promise you 

It shall never happen again. 

My country shall suffer for this 

When she comes within our possession. 

I shall laugh when I see her downtrodden, 

And shall spurn and trample on her, 

As if she was a venomous serpent, 

And laugh at her anguish, and gloat 

Over her death throes, as I would enjoy 

A feast after a couple of day's fast 

My country never did much for me, 

I am sure, and I'll make her sorry for it. 

I will now bid farewell to her forever, 

And never call her mine again. 

( lome, let's go. From now the time is dated. 

That her and I must be forever parted. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

Scene. — A road near Tarrytown. 

Paulding, Williams and Van Wart found concealed in 
the bushes near the road. 

Paul. Well, boys, we have found a snug retreat here sure 
enough. 'Twould take a mighty powerful, good 
hound to scent us out here; and woe upon the luck- 
less indvidual that falls in our hands, for we belong 
to the noble skinners, a gallant, reckless band as 



16 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT. III. 

ever was, and feared through all the country 
round. 

Will. You may truly call us skinners, for we always 

skin people out of their money when they come 

our way. 
Wart. So we do, boys, both legally and morally. Say 

we have a social game of seven-up to drive away 

dull care and sorrow. 
Will. Yes, and dull time too. All right: let's play: 

bring out the cards. 
Paul. Here they are : I got 'em always handv. 
Worth.Shuffle 'em, John. 

Paul. High deals. You deal, Ike ; you got the king. 
Wart. All right. Say; is this a straight game; boys ? 
Will. Yes, you may bet on't. What'll we play for ? 

money, cattle, hides, skins, or what? 
Wart. Money. Say we make it a dollar a game. 
Paid. I will play you once if I lose. 
Wart. Will you cut, John '? 
Paul. Yes, you bet I'll cut, shoot or run. 
Wart. Well, boys, spades is trumps : the queen of spades, 

you see. 
Paul. I turned up a queen once, Ikey, but she was no 

go : I lost on her. 
Wart. Follow suit, Dave. Havn't you got a heart. 
Will. Yes — in my system, but not in my hand. 
Wart. No matter where you got it. Play it. 
Will. I havn't got it to play. It's played out long ago: 

Annie played it out for me. 
Paul. That's my trick, Dave: what are you thinking of ? 

a queen beats a Jack. 
Wart. Dave's thinking of Annie, I suspect, or p'rhaps of 

euchre : it's only in euchre where a scurvey jack 

can come it over a beautiful queen : that is if it's 

a bower: then he downs her every time. That's 

your trick, John, no question about it 
Will. Play on my ace there, will you? Oh, I thought 

that would bring your jack. Boys, give me high. 

low, jack and the game. 
Wart. What else do you want, the earth ? 
Will. Yes. with a big fence around it. 
Wart. I believe you. You believe in whole hog or none: 

you are more of a republican than a democrat I 

see. Let's count this game here. 
Will. I played low sure ; no one can claim that. 
Wart. And I got game sure ; over thirty odd ; 

No use counting it. 
Paul. Will, give me the cards ; it's my deal. 
Wart. Let's take something before we start another hand. 



Scene I.'J benedict Arnold the traitor. 17 

Will. Hello ! some one in sight. Keep close now boys, 

and keep your eyes peeled. 

{Enter Andre, on horseback, at a distance). 
And. Well, I think I'm on the right road now, 

And I shall get through all safe. 

[ believe I'm through the most dangerous part 

Of the country, and begin to think the worst part 

Of my journey is over with. Ah, how pleased 

Sir Henry will be when I succeed. 

I'll be the lion of the hour, I'm confident, 

When the part I took in this affair comes out. 

Gee, Nellie, what's the matter with you ? 

Why did you shy so? Did you see anything? 

Or are you becoming tired ? Ho, sweet girl, 

Come up now. and get along ; we have 

A long journey yet to make. 
Wart. John, he's a stranger, and a very gentleman-like 

looking fellow, that you don't see often about 

these parts, and appears to be very well dressed 

and has boots on, and who I think you had better 

stop and question, if you don't know liim. 
Paul. Hush, Ike ; talk low. 
And. This is a romantic place, eh, Nellie? 

I have hardly time to admire the scenery. 

Or I would let you rest a little. 

I can only look with gloating eye on it, 

And inhale it, as it were, with one gulp. 

Ah, this scene revives within my mind 

Old and fond memories. O, Honora, 

Thou bright star of my youth, 

Let that star in heaven that most resembles you 

Guide me to-night as safely 

As your fond ever-remembered image does 

In the day-time. O, sweet Venus. 

Thou bright star that shines so lovely, 

Guide me with your sweet influence, 

That I may make my journey safely. 
Paul. Halt! who are you ? What's your business? 

Which way are you going? 
And. Gentlemen, I hope you belong to our party ? 
Paul. What party? 
And. The lower party. 
Paul. We do. 
And. Well, I'm a British officer, out of the country 

On particular business, and I hope 

You'll not detain me a minute, 

(Andre pulls out his watch). 
Paul. Dismount. 

And. My God ! I must do something to get along 
(He pulls out a pass from General Arnold). 



18 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT I. 

Here's a pass from General Arnold ; 
Read it, if yon wish, and see whether 'tis not 
All right, and then let me go for I'm 
In a hurry. Well, is it not all right? 
(Andre gets down from his horse.) 

Paul. Let's see. Boys, keep an eye on him. Sure 
enough this is a pass, 
And I don't doubt but that it's genuine, 
For it's dated at headquarters, 
With General Arnold's own signature to it. 
But, boys, this is all very strange and curious, 
He first saying he's a British officer, 
Pulling out his watch at the same time 
To prove it, and then pulling out a pass 
From General Arnold, in which he doesn't say 
A word about a British officer. 

And. Are you not of the lower party ? 

Paul. No, we are not : we are of 

The upper party, the right party, the great party, 

The only party. I tell you, my friend, it would 

Have been better for you if you had belonged 

To the right party. Then you would have 

Been all O. K.: now your name is Dennis : 

Now you are as sorry an object 

As an office seeker that has belonged 

To the wrong party : now we will pluck you. 

And. Well, then I will admit I was lying to you. 
I am not a British officer, but I am an 
American citizen of the same party 
That you are. 

Paul. Well, here's a puzzle ; a regular Chinese puzzle. 
Now I have you ; now I havn't you : 
First you are ; then you aren't. 
What are you any way ? are you 
Or are you not ? that's the question 
For this here jury to decide. 
Mebbe you arc, and mebbe you aren't : 
No telling , so I must investigate the title 
Of this business, as the attorney said to his client, 
And see whether I can make heads or tails 
Of it. 

And. I tell you, gentlemen, there is not any need 
Of any investigation here at all. 
If the pass is genuine, and you know it, 
Why, there's an end of the whole matter. 

Paul. It is, is it? well, I don't know about that. 
The end is not yet come, I'm thinking, 
If I may be permitted to think at all 
In this matter. 

And. Gentlemen, I beg you, do not detain me, 



Scene I.] benedict aknoij> the traitor. 19 

Do no put this indignity on the general's messen- 
ger, 

For you'll be sure to get yourselves into trouble. 
Paul. I'll risk it once, at all events, 

If I hang for it. Watch him. boys, he may 

Try to escape. Come now, sir, there's no 

Other way, you must go into the bushes 

And let us search you. 
And. Gentlemen, I protest, this is a perfect outrage. 
Paul. Ike, shoot him down like a clog ; 

Dave, pepper him, if he tries to escape. 
And. You'll pay for this outrage, gentlemen. 

Well, then, come on ; of course I'm willing 

To be searched, and I hope you'll find something 

For your pains. But, gentlemen, I'll make this 
outrage known, 

If I live another day. 
Paul. Shut up, or you may not live another day. 

Make it known ; we do not care. 

Come now ; in the bushes here, 

{They go into the bushes and search him, which is 
visible to the audience). 

Now pull oft' your clothes. 
And. Very well, here's my coat. 
Paul. Can't you find nothing in it, Dave? 
Will. No, nothing; fine garment, though, 
Paul. Ike, you search his pants, 
Wart. I can't find anything in 'em. 
Paul. Look sharp, boys, look sharp, 

I've made up my mind to find something; 

I'll be terribly disappointed if 1 don't. 

Can't you find anything in his vest? 

In his shirt? in his underclothes? 

(They shield Andre from the gaze of the audience 
here). 

Can't you find anything? 
Both. No, nothing ; such cursed luck. 
Paul In his boots? stockings? hat? nowhere? 

Why you hav'nt even pulled off his stockings, 

Pull 'em off. I bet you a dollar. 

We find something in his stockings. 

I've never known it to fail. 

'Tis strange, I never thought of it before. 
Will. Sure enough. Here are some papers. 
Wart. And here are f-ome more. 
And. Gentlemen, these are only private papers. 

They can not interest you in the least. 
Paul. As I thought ; there's no place 

For hiding things like in the stockings ; 

This is gospel truth, boys, and every old woman 



20 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT Til. 

And young one's, too, for that matter, 

Knows it. Witness what she does ; she always 

Hides her purse in her stockings. 

And always finds it again, too, 

When she wants it. 

You may pull on your clothes now, sir, 

While I examine the papers. 
Wart. Keep an eye on him, Dave. 

He looks desperate and might skip. 
Will. In his condition, Ike, O Ike, 

Ikey, do you think he'll skip 

In this condition, after he has been raped 

Of all his possessions. Supposing he was 

A woman now, dressed only in her dear mother's 

Nature's clothes. O Lord, let me not think 

Of it. I guess its better as it is. 
Will. Well, John, what can you make of it ? 

Lord ! what a face for an artist. 

Ignorance made wise ! He can't make much 

Of it, I guess. I know I could'nt, thanks 

To my ignorance. 
Wart. Why, what is it, John ; have you got 'em again ? 
Paul. My God ! he's a spy. 
Wart. What ! are you certain ? 
Paul. As sure as I can read. If he's not 

A spy, I am ignorance itself. 
Will. Lord! what a catch! If we don't 

Become rich by this pull, I'll never search 

Another man again as long as I live. 
And. Gentlemen, for God's sake, what do you mean? 

You surely do not think I am a spy. 
Paul. That's about the size of it. 
And. You don't understand anything about this. 

Come, give me the papers, and I'll explain. 
Paul. Not much : I've got these papers, 
. And I'll keep them, be sure. 

Come, sir, we will go where your horse 
Is hitched. 

{They go out into the road.) 
Paul. Now you are in a pickle, my friend, 

1 would not be in your boots for 

A big sum of money. What will you give me, 

If I let you go ? 
And. I'll give you any sum of money. 
Paul. Will you give me your horse, saddle, bridle, watch. 

And one hundred guineas ? 
And. Yes, and I'll direct you to any place 

So that you may get them. 
Paul. Will you give us more? 
And. I will give you any quantity of dry goods, 



Scene I.] benedict arnold the traitor. 21 

Or any sum of money you may demand, 

And bring it to any place you may pitch upon, 

If you let me go. 
Paul. No, if you would give us ten thousand guineas 

You should not stir one step. 

Would you run away if it lay in your power? 
And. Yes, I would. 
Paul. I don't intend you shall. 
Will. Why did you call yourself a British officer? 

Why not John Anderson, my Joe? 

And you'd have been all right. 
And. For God's sake, gentlemen, ask me no more ques- 
tions. 

Take me to one of your commanders, 

Where I will reveal all. 
Paul. All right : we'll do it. 

I don't wish to make sport of your misery. 

I hope you'll forgive me, if I 

Have offended you. 
And. Yes, yes, I forgive you all. 

I know you do but your duty. 
Paul. Well, mount your horses, boys, 

We'll take him to North Castle, 

Where Lieutenant Colonel Sheldon is stationed 

With a party of his regiment of dragoons. 

I've been there often and know the way. 

Come, hurry up, and guard the prisoner carefully. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

Scene 1.— Arnold's Headquarters, Robinsons. Enter Arnold 
and Margaret. 

Mar. Now, husband, the breakfast is all prepared, 

And everything is ready and awaiting the guests 
As soon as they may come. 

Am. Very well, my lovely housewife. 

But hark! I think our guests are coming; 
For if I mistake not I heard horses's hoofs 
Coming up the road. Let's look out 
And see whether we can see them. 
The General is a very graceful rider, 
Sitting on a horse in such a manner 
As if he had been born in a saddle ; 
And with such an erect and towering mien 
That he attracts all attention from his compeers, 
As if he was a very Centaur among common 
horsemen. 

Mar. I do not see General Washington with them, 
Perhaps he is coming on behind. 



22 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

Am. No, I do not think so ; 

He may have been delayed in some manner. 

You do not know him as well as I do : 

Washington never rides behind ; he is always 

In the lead, whether in an engagement or not. 

But here they are ; I will go out 

And be ready to receive them at the gate, 

And bring them in. {Exit. 

Mar. I know not what to think of my husband. 
He must be in trouble, or something 
Of extraordinary importance is on his mind 
That makes him so changed lately. 
He is now always so grave and thoughtful 
When alone that I am very uneasy about him; 
Though he has such control over himself 
That when I am with hi in he could be cheerful, 
Though his heart were breaking. I can not 
Possibly find out what it is, for I know 
He does not tell me the truth, for fear 
He might cause me suffering. What a dear, 
Good husband he is ! Oh, were anything disastrous 
To befall him, I know 'twould be my death. 
O, thou great God ! I pray thee 
Watch over him and keep him safe, 
And bring thou speedy peace to this land 
That we may all again sleep in contentment. 
(Re-enter Arnold and Colonel Hamilton and other 
guests). 

Am. Here are our guests, wife. 

This is Colonel Hamilton, Washington's aid-de- 
camp; 
And these other gentlemen are also of his staff. 

Mar. Gentlemen, I am glad to see you all. 
You are all welcome, and I hope 
You will all make yourselves at home, 
And enjoy yourselves best you can ; 
Your humble hostess will do all 
In her power to see you do so ; 
So do not offend her, if you please, 
By being slow with her good-will. 

Ham. First, our honored hostess, let me thank you 
In the General's and in our own names, 
For the kind hospitality you extend towards us. 

Mar. The less thanks the better, Colonel. 

Ham. Then let me give you the general's message, 
That he is sorry he cannot take breakfast 
With you, but hopes to have the pleasure 
Of taking dinner with you. 

Mar. I am verry sorry that the general was delayed, 

But we must console ourselves with the thought 



SCEXE I.] BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TBAITOR. 23 

That he will be with us for dinner. 

Now, gentlemen, please draw near to the table, 

And see whether we can do justice 

To the breakfast that will be brought before us. 

( Waite7-s bring in the breakfast.) 
I confess, gentlemen, lam almost envious of you — 
If it is proper for a hostess to 
Be envious of her guests good appetites, — 
For having rode in the open air this morning, 
Which riding I know is conducive to good appe- 
tites, 
Since I, myself, have taken many a canter before 

breakfast, 
And know whereof I speak ; but I did not 
Have an opportunity this morning. 
But, gentlemen, I beg, do not be bashful; 
And do not let me do all the talking, 
Or I will think that you are all tongue-tied. 

Warn. Know, hostt ss, a soldier is naturally basbful 
When he comes in contact with tbe fair sex. 
He can be brave before a man, 
But before a woman his bravery vanishes, 
And he is weaker and more helpless 
Than a maiden ever would be 
Were she in love up to her eyes 
With the hardest hearted gentleman that ever 

lived. 
So think of that, lady, and do your best 
To excuse us. 

Mar. I do not know that, Colonel. 

The general here said something to that effect 
When he wooed your humble hostess ; 
But now I know him to have been 
A most shameful malign er, since I have found 
Him out better. No, you soldiers are all alike : 
You smile whenever you see a woman 
Within a mile of you; and as for blushing, 
I verily believe you do not know what it is ; 
That you couldn't do it to save your lives. 
And you all natter, too ; and when 
You once have conquered a fair maiden, 
Then soldier like, you wish to conquer another, 
And let her pine out her broken heart 
While you are pouring balm on another. 
Alas, even now, gentlemen, you look at the general 
As if you were already sympathyzing with him ; 
And saying to yourselve, what a cruel jailer he has, 
That keeps him imprisoned in this fortress 
While he might be out conquering others. 
{Enter a servant.) 



24 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

Ser. General, there's a messenger at the door 

With a letter, which he says is very important, 

And wishes to give into your own hands. 
Am. Admit him then. 

[Enter Lieutenant Allen.) 

Good morning lieutenant. 
Allen. Good morning, General. I salute you, ladies, 

And you also, gentlemen. 
Am. What is the news, lieutenant ? 
Allen. Here is a letter, sir, 

Which Colonel Johnson told me to give you. 

It is marked important on the back of it, 

So I made all the haste I could. 
Am. Very well, I will look at it immediately. 

Will you have some breakfast, lieutenant V 

Wife, please see that he is made as comfortable 

As possible. Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. 
(He gets uj), goes aside, breaks open the letter, and 
reads it). 
Mar. Sit down here, lieutenant : here's an empty place. 

Though you have come last, and we 

Have made some headway with the breakfast, 

Let it not jar on your feelings 

That I now invite you to sit down with us. 
Allen. O, lady ! how can you think so ! 

First let me thank you, and then let 

Me be seated. I'm as hungry as a lion. 
Mar. Good ; but don't eat us all up ; 

We might not taste good. 

But let me till your plate for you. 

Now, lieutenant, good appetite and good diges- 
tion. 
Allen. I thank you, hostess. Don't mind me any further. 

Let me hide myself in my own modesty. 
Mar. Another bashful man ! the world's 

Coming to an end. I am going to plague you 

Since you are bashful ; I am going to stare you 

Out of countenance altogether if I can. 
Allen. Be hospitable to me, lady. 

Don't mind me, 
Mar. That would be indeed poor hospitality. 

I am going to bother you the rest 

Of the meal for that speech. 
Am. Andre captured ! the papers sent to Washington ! 

All discovered ! My God ! all then is lost! 

And nothing remains to me but flight. 

O, Andre, how could you let yourself be taken ! 

Where are your big words, your big promises now ? 

They sound to me now like mockery. 

But this is no time for emotion. 



Scene I.] benedict arnold the traitor. 25 

My face ! do not betray me, but be a mask 

For me, and shield all tbe feeling, that possesses me. 
Ham. The General seems somewhat agitated. 

What has happened, General? anything extraordi- 
nary ? 
Am. No, nothing extraordinary ; yet something more 
than ordinary. 

Gentlemen, my immediate presence is required at 
West Point, 

So please tell General Washington when he arrives 

That I was unexpectedly called over the river 

And will soon return. Some one see 

That a horse is ready for me at the door. 

Excuse me, gentlemen, I must now leave you. 

But don't let this interrupt you ; 

Finish the meal as if nothing had happened. 

{Exit. 
Mar. Do, gentlemen, as the general said ; 

Do not let this interrupt, the meal. 

Though the general is absent; the general's wife 

Is present, who, I trust, has enough charms 

To interest a bevy of gentlemen at a table. 

The business must be of gome importance 

As the general is in such a hurry to be off. 

Can any of you imagine what it is ? 
Ham. I am sure I cannot. 

But then it is not necessary for us to know, 

As the general would have told us of it, 

If it had been. 

{Enter a servant.) 
Ser. Madam, the general desires your presence 

In your chamber at this instant, he said. 

He wishes to see you before he leaves. 
Mar. Very well, I will go instantly. 

Gentlemen, please excuse me for a moment. 

While I am absent I trust 

You will make the best of this interrupted meal. 

{Exit. 
Ham. Well, gentlemen, let us do as our hostess bids us ; 

Go on with the meal. I admit, though, 

That half the pleasure of it is lost now, 

Since our accomplished hostess is not present. 

Gentlemen, there's nothing like a pure lady's so- 
ciety, 

To keep a man from being an outright boor. 
Allen. Colonel, I think you are right there ; 

But now we must make the best of circumstances. 

And now, gentlemen, let me propose a toast, 

Which I hope is not out of order. 

Waiter, fill the glasses, please. 



26 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

{The waiter fills the glasses.) 
Allen. This is the toast, 

I now have the honor to propose : 
Long live the general and his excellent wife. 
All. Long live the general and his excellent wife. 
Allen. Drink deep and modestly, gentlemen, 

As you also drink the health of a very modest 
woman. 
The General is heard galloping on horseback, and Mrs. 
Arnold was heard to give a shriek in anguish just a 
moment before. 
( The curtain falls mid wonderment.) 

Scene II. — Another room in Arnold' 1 s headquarters. 
Enter Washington and Hamilton. 

Wash. Now the whole mystery is solved, 

And everything comes to me like inspiration. 

I can now review all of his acts, 

And they all present themselves to me 

As all the deeds of a lifetime 

Present themselves to a drowning or a dying man. 

It is clear that he has gone over 

To the enemy. 

Ham. That we may be certain of, your excellency. 

Wash. Now, Colonel, all idle talk is time wasted — 
I fear we have wasted too much already — 
And every moment Arnold is gaining on us, 
And making our chances less to capture him. 
Therefore, saddle your horse with all speed 
And ride to Verplanck's Point, and see 
Whether you cannot intercept him there. 
Colonel, I would give you a fortune 
If you could apprehend the traitor. 
Use all your best endeavors to capture him. 
If not alive, take him dead. 
Farewell. 

Ham. I go, your excellency ; and will do my best 

To capture him. [Exit. 

Wash. O, my country, my dear, loving country, 
That is every moment in my thought, 
And my every thought, my care for you, 
Than whom I love better than my life ; 
As dear as my soul, my dear, beloved country, 
My good, sweet, loving, dear country, 
Mv hope, my joy, my sorrow, my fear, my all, 
What should I do now to save you 
From this cruel stroke that is about 
To be inflicted upon you. O, my country, my child , 
If I could but lay down my life to save you, 
How gladly would I do it. 



Scene II.] benedict arnold the traitor. 27 

O, God! thou great ruler of destinies. 

I pray thee look down upon our country, 

And throw thou thy heavenly mantle over it, 

And guard it from all harm. 

Tell me what to do, O, God, 

And tell me how to do it, 

That I may best serve my country. 

Oh, let me now collect my scattered thoughts, 

And see what's the best thing to be done. 
Enter Lafayette and Knox. 

O, General, whom can we trust now ? 

O, Marquis ! Arnold is a traitor, 

And has fled to the enemy. 

I let fall a tear for Arnold the General, 

But hereafter I can not but despise 

Arnold the traitor. 
Laf. What did you say, General ? Arnold a traitor 
Wash. Yes. 

Laf. O, infamous man ! 
Knox. Can this be true ? O, dear faith ! 

With whom can we lodge you ? 
Wash. Yes, 'tis true. 
Laf. Well, General, I do not envy him his reputation. 

This no doubt will get him one 

For his country next to that of Judas. 
Wash. Yes, no doubt. Ungrateful, treacherous. 

Worse than any faults that are, 

You appear darker to me now 

Than the thickest gloom I can imagine of. 

We all trusted him too as ourselves. 

O, most degenerate man, to have fallen so low. 

As low as the archangel fell, 

When he fell from heaven, 

In his downward flight to hell. 

Yet satan is to me an angel still 

When compared to him. Come, let's talk 

Of him as little as possible. 

I can not but despise such a man. 

And now, generals, to the business on hand. 

As we are wholly ignorant of the extent 
Of his plans, and do not know 

The degree of maturity to which they have been 
brought 

Or what persons may be involved with him. 
Our first steps must be to provide 
For the security of the garrisons and its depen- 
dencies. 
General, will you see that some messengers 
Are brought in. 
Knox. Certainly, your excellency. [Exit. 



BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

Wash. Now, General, I will first write 

To the principal officers at West Point, 
And to the others commanding detachments 
In the neighborhood, and give them explicit or- 
ders, 
And tell them to make the best arrangements 
For resistance in case of an attack. 
Laf. You know best, your excellency. 

{Re-enter Knox, with messengers.) 
Wash. Very well, General, thank you. 

Let the first messenger step forward. 
Knox. You hear his excellency. Step forward. 
lst.Mess. I am ready, sir, to obev your orders. 
Wash. Very well : take this letter 

To the commanding officer at West Point • 
And take a body guard with you 
Of eight men in case of danger. 
You will do this with all the speed 
You can. Farewell. 
1st. Mess. Yes, sir, 

Wash. The next. You, sir, will take this to Salem. 
2wa.Me3s.Yes, sir. 
Wash. This is to North Castle. 
3rd. Mess. Yes, sir. 
Wash. You this to Dobb's Ferry. 
4th.Mess.Yes, sir. 
Wash. You this to King's Ferry. 
5th.Mess.Yes, sir. 
Wash. And you this to Colonel Livingstone 

At Verplanck's Point. 
6th.Mess.Yes, sir. 

Wash. You all understand your duty. 
Will. Yes, sir. 

Wash. Hold ! you will all take a body guard 
With you, and make as much' haste 
As you can. Farewell, and God speed. 
„ r A [Exeunt Messengers. 

Wash. Now, we must send an express to General Green, 
Who you know is commanding the army near 

Tappan 
In my absence, and direct him to put 
The left wing of it in motion as soon as possible, 
And to march towards King's Ferry, where, 
On the road, we will give him furtur orders] 
Come, let's go. {Exeunt. 

Scene III.— Mrs. Arnold's Chamber. 
Mrs. Arnold, with her child, and Betsy present. 
Bet. Sister, dear sister, pray cease all such talk. 
Why, you have been going on so 



Scene 111.] benedict arnold the traitor. 29 

For the last three hours. Do you wish 
To kill yourself? Well, you are doing it 
As quick as the clumsiest doctor in the 
World could do it. You are incorrigible : pray 

remember, 
All this weeping does no good : it cannot 
Bring back your husband to you, 
Nor can it change what has been done : 
If it could, then I would not attempt 
To restrain you from it ; yet weep, 
If you will, dear sister ; perbaps 'tis best : 
'Tmay ease your poor heart somewhat. 

Mar. My heart can never more be easy ; 

It has already become has heavy as lead. 
And seems to weight my wbole body down. 

Bel. O, poor, unfortunate sister ! I pity you 

With all my heart. If I could do anything 
To relieve you I would do it willingly, 
But I am skilless, as much as I would 
That I were able, I am but a poor hand 
For comforting ; my heart beats strongly for you, 
But I can not find words to make it speak. 
That's right, dear sister, do try to be easy. 
Poor heart ! you are now almost dead from weep- 
ing. 
You look as weak and wearied as an infant 
That has not slept the livelong day. 
Do try to sleep and rest yourself. 
Come, lay your head on my bosom, 
Right next to your child's, and let me see 
If I can not ease you a little ; 
Do, poor sister, come and follow the example 
Of your child and let me rock you to sleep. 

Mar. No, no, Betsy, I could not go to sleep. 
I do not think I can ever go 
To sleep again, nor do I wish to, 
Until that last sleep that knows no more 
Awakening here on earth. But I thank God 
That my child is asleep, and I thank you, 
Dear sister, for all your kindnesses to me. 
And may God bless you for it ; 
I can not ; I do not think I have 
The power, nor do I think my blessings 
Would do you any good, 
I am snch an unfortunate creature. 

Bet. Do not think that ; 

Some day you will wonder why you wept 
So much on account of this. Now do try 
To be a little more cheerful, for my sake, 
If not for yours. 



30 BENEDICT ARNOLD TUB TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

Mar. I never can be cheerful again ; 

I never can bmile again as long as 

I live, but must now go to my grave 

As sorrowful as a God-forsaken ghost. 

Heaven ! such misery that I must now endure. 

I have given up all hopes that I will ever 

Have another peaceful hour here on earth. 

I only wait for death to carry me oft". 

That I may again be peaceful. 

O, my child, my little babe, were it not 

For you, I would be more than willing to die. 
Bet. Pshaw, pshaw, pshaw. Dear, dear, dear, don't 
talk so. 

Don't for heaven's sake, don't. 
Mar. My husband does not love me any more either, 

Or he would never have left me 

In the manner that he did. 

O! these men, these men, what sorrow 

They cause us poor women. Why do they 

Not think of us when they do their misdeeds, 

And that we must suffer too, 

Along ith them. If they only would, 

And had the least feeling for us, 

I do not see how they could have the heart 

To do things so thoughtlessly and unfeelingly 

As they do. O, my husband, are you dead to me ? 

If so, then, God, let me die, too. 
Bet. For heaven's sake, sister, do be quiet. 

The next thing you do, you will 

Be worrying your child, and making it miserable, 
too, 

As you have b' en doing me and yourself 

The whole day long. 
Mar. Give me my child, Betsy ; let me nurse it ; 

You are tired anyway ; I know you are. 

Come, give me my child ; I feel 

As if it was not safe out of my arms. 
Bet. Not safe, sister ! 
Mar. God forgive me ! forgive me, dear, kind sister. 

I know he is safe with you, but I must 

Have something to caress and love 

Or I shall go mad. Give me him, please. 
Bet. You will wake him. 

See, how beautiful he sleeps ! 

An angel of innocence and peace. 

Let me keep him just for a 

Little while yet; do. 
Mar. No, no, give him to me ; 

I can tend him better than you, 

Is he not my child ? am I not 



Scene III.] benedict arnold tub traitor. 31 

His mother? poor, dear, sweet, innocent child, 

You little cherubim, so heavenly, pure and sweet. 

Let me kiss the heavenly moisture off 

Of your lips, to queneh the thirst 

And anguish of my poor starved heart. 

Give him to me : you should not wish 

To keep a child from its mother. 

Bet. Very well : take him then : 

Here he is. You poor, fond heart ! 
I hope it may ease it with its dear 
And sympathetic influence. 

Mar. Who is coming. My husband ? I think 
1 hear someone coming. Do you think 
It could be my husband ? Maybe 'tis 
His ghost, or maybe they have captured him, 
And are now bringing him back in chains. 
Then they will hang him to a jibbet, 
And mock both him and me in our misery. 
Let them not come in here, in an innocent 
Person's house, where they have no business, 
But let them look to their own houses, 
Where there is more need for them to search. 
And let them unearth the filth there 
In all its nakedness and foulness. 
Away from there, you minions of the law, 
And go where you are wanted, and do not - 
( oine in here to get me in your clutches, 
For I will scratch your eyes out 
Before you can ever see me. 
Keep the door shut : no coming in here : 
I'm not at home ; I'll not have it. 
Keep 'em out ; they'll take me prisoner, too. 
Thinking I was his accomplice. 
Fasten the door tight, so they cannot 
Get in ; I would not have them catch me 
For all the world. 

Enter Doctor Physiek and Annie. 

Bet. Whv, sister, do not be frightened. 

No harm shall come to you while I am here 

To protect you. Compose yourself: there's no 

sense 
In your being frightened. 

Mar. I say they are coming for me; maybe they 

Are here this very instant. They wish to take 
My babe from me too : first they will hang 
My husband to a hickory tree, and then they 
Will hang me, and then throw out my babe to 
The wild wolves for them to devour. 
A savage, monstrous pack of you, 
That all deserve to be killed, 



32 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

Instead of killing others who are innocent 

And harmless as lambs. 

Oh, there's much cruelty in the world ! 

Our family will become extinct all at once : 

There'll be a hanging bee to-night as sure 

As fate ; our doom has knelled ; 

It is now near : I hear the bell. 

fatal bell ! It tolls slow, 

But sure and certain. And what to me, moreover, 
Was strange then, but not now. 

1 had a dream last night that was 

Very unfavorable. It said I should never 

Have married, and that something terrible would 

Happen to me. 
Bet. This is nothing real, sister, nothing but your im- 
agination, 

A dream ; that's all. 
Ann. What do you think of this, Doctor? 

Every since her husband left her 

She has been cutting such capers. 
Phys. This is serious, very serious, indeed. 

As all brain affections are ; and that she has 

A brain affection even you yourself, girl, 

With your simple wisdom, can see. 
Ann. What do you think caused it, Doctor? 
Phys. Well, a variety of causes might have affected this. 

You see, I am not fully yet acquainted 

With the history of the case, so I would 

Not say for certain what was the cause. 
Ann. Poor dear, she is quiet now. 

Perhaps she'll get better after this. 
Phys. Merely a lull in the storm 

That is raging in her mind. 

In a little while, take my word for it, 

She will break out afresh and with renewed fury. 
Ann. How can you tell, Doctor? 

Why shouldn't she get better now ? 
Phys. Girl, I tell you I'm a doctor ; 

Have practiced for years, and know what 

I speak of. You must listen to me with respect, 

And have confidence in my superior wisdom ; 

And you must also answer me truly everything 

I ask you to the best of your ability. 
Ann. I know you know a good deal, Doctor. 

Of course you do ! you know everything. 

I hope you'll forgive me ; I beg your pardon. 

Certainly, doctor ; I meant no offence, doctor. 

Is she out of her mind entirely, doctor? 
Phys. No, I wouldn't hardly say that she was. 

There is some abberation of the mind, no doubt, 



Scene III.] benedict arnold the traitor. 33 

But to say that she was non compos mentis entirely, 

That would be more than I could say 

With perfect truth. But let us watch 

The case, and see what it may unfold 

To our observation, 'tis a very interesting one. 

No doubt she will soon take up 

Her interrupted discourse again. 
Mar. Ha, ha ! Look ! look ! 

Now I see him marching out to the scaffold. 

The drum is muffled, and beats time 

To the soldier's tread ; his step is firm and sure ; 

He does not blanch to meet his fate. 

Now they put the black cap on his face, 

And now pull the support from under him. 

O, God ! now he falls and breaks his neck. 

Heaven ! what a horrible death to die ! 

I'd rather drown myself than die that way. 

Though I've heard people say it was 

Not so hard — only a peculiar sensation, 

In fact it was nice and soothing 

After you get use to it. 
Bet. O, sister! what a horrible dream. 

I wonder what put it in your mind. 

Nothing but your fear. Compose yourself, dear 
sister. 
Phys. Bromides, girl, would do her good. 

But, then I would not say positively so, 

For the best thing to do here would be 

To remove the cause, and. lo. that once removed, 

Why, then, the effect would be gone too. 
Ann. Then why don't you remove it, doctor? 

You surely ought to remove it, if that's 

The case. 
Phys. Girl, you should be silent and listen, 

And not be so noisome and talkative, 

When I am ready to remove it, I will. 

I wish to mark the case well, first ; 

It's very interesting. But let's see 

What we know of it already ; 

I mean what you ; I myself know, of course, 

Pretty certain what the cause is. 

She didn't fall violently, did she? 
Ann. No, doctor, I don't think she did. 

Why do you ask, doctor? 
Phys. Well, you see, she might have ruptured 

A blood vessel or something of that nature, 

But of course that's out of the question now. 

She hasn't heart disease, or kidney disease, 

As you are aware of? Of course not? no? 
Ann. No, doctor, not that I know of. 



34 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

Unless, doctor, this shock that she received 
When her husband left her so abrubtly 
Might have affected her heart. 

Phys It might, girl — 

Not that you could suspect such a thing by your- 
self— 
It might, I admit — I have read and heard 
Of such a thing— it might, I say, 
Be a case of a broken heart, but I only 
Say might — I do not say is. 
This is a disease, girl, that which she is 
Suffering from now, that the medical profession 
Does not, as yet, know much of. It is obscure yet 
To us, but light, glorious light, is beginning 
To dawn on our minds, and soon all darkness 
Concerning it will have vanished, and we'll be able 
To see it in all its true character. 

Ann. What would you call it. Doctor? 

Has it a name yet, Doctor, that disease ? 

Phys. Well, no, girl, not in the books, yet, 
But there is a nomenclature that I 
Would give it if I was to write about it 
And make it known to the profession. 
It is a disease of sorrow, grief, anguish, despair, 
Sadness, and melancholy — not 'melancholia,' 
I mean, mind you ; no, no, that is a calm and mild 
Disease compared to this, but this one is composed 
Of all misery. I'll think about it more. 
I'll not give it a name yet . 1 must look up 
My Latin before I should undertake to properly 
do so. 

Mar. Oh, they come, they come. 

Hide me, hide me, for heaven's sake, 
Hide me. Oh, I hear 'em coming. 
Oh, lock the door ! For God's sake, 
Don't let 'em come in. Now they will ring 
The bell. No, they are not even so polite, 
But even come in as unceremonious as the hang- 
man. 

Enter Washington and Hamilton. 

Phys. Chloroform would come in handy here, girl. 
I wish I had it with me ; 

I would stop these convulsions of nature then, 
As sure as there's virtue in some medicines. 

Ann. Don't chloroform her, Doctor, for heaven's sake, 
You'll kill her. 

Wash. Madam, I heard that you were ill. 
What can I do for you ? I wish 
To tell you that my assistance is at 
Your service, if I can aid you. 



SCEXE III.] BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. 35 

Mar. You wish to take my child from me : 

Not content with having taken my husband from me, 
You now wish to take away my child. 
Give me my boy, Annie. Do not come 
Near me, sir : monster, that you are, 
You wish to murder my child, my poor, 
Little innocent babe. 

Phys. Ha! this is an hallucination 

That she is laboring under, but hardly that, 

I suspect ; rather a delusion of the mind.- 

Poor woman, I fear she'll be getting down right 

crazy 
If the strain is not soon taken off 
Of her mind. I might give her an injection 
Of morphine, if she'll let me. 
I'll try her. 

Mar. Keep away from me, sir. Do not come 
Any nearer. You shall not have him 
Unless you kill me lirst. Poor unfortunate babe, 
Be not afraid. Your mother will protect you 
With her life ; yes. that's what she will. 
My poor. dear, sweet, little babe, 
That you are, they wish to take you from inc. 
But they won't ; not while I'm alive : 
No, they won't. 

Wash. Madam, I do not intend to harm him, 
But on the contrary — 

Mar. I say keep away : you shall not have him ; 
He is my babe ; I am his mother: 
Why should you wish to come 'tween wife and 

child? 
O, sir, on my bended knees, I pray you, 
Do not rob me of my child. He is the 
Only one I have, the only one 
I ever will have, therefore I beseech you 
Do not take him from me. Poor little lamb. 
He's innocent, I swear he is. O sir, 
Spare my child ! do not kill him. 

Phys. You should dissuade her, your excellency, 

From this opinion. If you don't, I wouldn't wish 

To be held responsible for her mind. 

It's tottering in the balance now, 

And but a little more straining would be enough 

To make it give and topple over. 

Wash. Madam, dear madam, compose yourself. 

Why do you think I wish to kill your child ? 
How could such a thought ever have entered 
Into your mind ? No, no, dear madam, believe me, 
I have nothing but good intentions towards your 
child, 



36 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT IV. 

As I have the same towards you. 
God forbid, I would not harm a hair 
Of your baby's head for all the world. 
Mar. I do not believe you, sir. 

You are false as all men are. 

You are deceivers all, all gay deceivers, 

And think of nothing but wrecking and ruining 

Us poor women. God forgive you all. 

You have much to answer for. 

Wash. Madam, listen to me — 

Mar. No, I'll not. Don't think for a moment 

That with your honied words you can deceive me. 
There is that gallant deceiver, Colonel Hamilton, 

over there. 
I wonder he does not aid you in trying 
To deceive me. He is a gallant gentleman, sure ; 
He should persuade one if any one could. 
But I will not be deceived. You wish 
To murder my child. If not, what did 
You come here for ? You've killed my husband. 
Why did you do it ? O, sir, what have 
You done to him that you do not bring 
Him to me ? Tell me, what have you 
Done to him ? 

Wash. Madame, I assure you, your husband is all safe. 
I have done all in my power, 
In accordance with my duty, to have 
Your husband arrested, but, not having succeeded, 
It gives me great pleasure to assure you 
Of his safety. 

Mar. Can I believe you, sir? Is my husband safe ? 
Has he escaped your clutches? Thank God, 
Thank God ! My husband is safe. 
Oh, how can I believe it possible ? 
How do you know he is safe ? 

Wash. He has written me a letter 

Within the lines of the enemy, that is, 

On board the Vulture, a British man of war, 

Therefore you may well believe he is safe. 

He desires that you may be allowed 

To go to your friends in Philadelphia, 

Or to join him, whichever you chose to do. 

Mar. And will you let me go to him ? 

O, sir, I pray you, he is my husband— 
Oh, let me go to him. 

Phys. The strain has given away now, 

And she's all right. I guess my services 

Are not any more required. I'll stay, though; 

She may suffer a relapse. 

Mar. What did you say ? Will you let 



Scene III.] benedict arnold the traitor. 37 

Me go to him ? 
Wash. Certainly, madam, when you are well, 

You can go to him, if you desire. 
Mar. I am well ; 1 am not ill. 

Let me go to him right away. 

When can I leave? Now, this evening? When ? 
O, sir, let me go to him now. 
Wash. Pray, have a little patience. 

You are not well enough to go to him 
At present. 
Mar. I see, sir, you do not wish 

To let me go to him. You make this 

As an excuse. Pray, sir, do not delude 

Me any more with false promises and hopes. 

It's no kindness that you do me — 

Though you may think so — 

To promise me something to humor me, 

When you have no intension of fulfilling your 

promises. 
No, it only makes me feel the worse 
In the end, for then I did not have 
Any hope and could not be disappointed ; 
But when once hope is aroused in one — 
Oh, how bitter 'tis to be disappointed. 
O, sir, let me go. Gentlemen, I swear before 
High heaven, and may I suffer eternal damnation 
If I do not tell the truth, 
I am as innocent of any crime as 
The new born babe. Why, God bless you, gen- 

tiemen, 
Do you not believe it? I did not even know 
That my husband did any wrong 
Before that I was told of it. Why, sir, 
You should not pronounce me guilty of 
Anything because my husband is. He did not 
Tell me his secrets — unfortunately he did not. 
O, sir, let me go. I beseech you. 
I swear, as heaven is my witness, 
I am as innocent as an angel. 
Ham. I will vouch for that, your excellency. 

Believe it, she is. 
Wash. I believe she is too. 

I would not blast her pure name 
For all the world. You shall go to him, madam, 
As soon as you are able. Have but patience. 
Mar. Patience ! Good God, sir, what patience more 
Would you wish me to have ? 
O, my poor boy, have I not had patience, 
As much as heaven for your poor sake? 
I'd have killed myself else, if not. 



3S BENEDICT ARNOLD TUE TRAITOR. [ACT V. 

Wash. I know, madam, that you are almost divine, 
Yet have a little more patience, 
And all things will turn out all right. 

Mar. O, my poor babe, my poor unfortunate child, 
My little lamb, what will become of you? 
Must you now, too, be sacrificed to 
The unfortunate altar of misguided man ? 
O, my little cherub, you are the most 
Ill-fated babe ever given birth to. 
Would that you had never been born. 
Alas, for that unfortunate hour in which 
You was born. I would that, in that blessed hour 
That I gave you being, you had died. 
Yet God knows that I suffered much for you, 
That I am willing to suffer more for you; 
That every hour of suffering was joy to me ; 
That my every moment of pang was rapture. 
Yes, my poor babe, you are the dearest part 
Of myself, the divine essence of my life — 
Yet I would I had never given you birth withal. 
For who knows now what will happen to you, 
Where my little lamb will stray T to, 
When once out of its poor mother's fold. 

Wash. Put his keeping in God's hands, madam, 
And he will never go astray ; or if so, 
God will bring him back again in the fold. 
Now only take good care of yourself, 
And you will see your husband very soon. 
Come, Colonel, let's leave Mrs. Arnold to herself. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

Scene. — A Guard House. 
Andre -present, guarded by soldiers and Hamilton. 
And. Well, my life's sands will soon be run out, 
And I will drop from out the sight of man, 
Like a fallen star drops from the firmament 
Into some hidden space, or as a pebble thrown 
Into the mighty waters sinks never to rise again. 
I have had my day, 
With all its bright concomitants, 
While now will come my night, 
With all its dark and hidden mysteries. 
Soon it will be with me, 
When trouble, strife, sorrow, misfortune, 
Peace, love, and friendship here on earth, 
I will never have anything more to do with — 
Ah, 'tis sorrowful to die, that you cannot deny, 
But only think how I am to die. 
To be hanged like a felon on a gibbet. 



Scene I.] benedict aknold the traitor. 39 

Think but, Colonel, Avhat such a scene, 

What thoughts it brings before my mind — 

I, a man of such dear, sensitive feelings, 

That the least discord grates on me. 

Oh, I cannot brook the idea of such a death. 

It makes my very flesh creep over my body, 

When I think I must die in such a manner. 

Understand, I am fully reconciled to my death, 

But I most heartily detest the mode of it. 

O, Colonel, you interceded for me, did you not, 

With your commander-in-chief? What did he 

say? 
Do you think it possible that he may grant me 
My request, that I may be shot? 
Oh, 'tis a disgraceful death that they might 
Well spare me of. Tell me, do you think 
It yet possible? Tell me truly, as you value me. 

Ham. No, Andre, there is no hope but that 
You must die, even in the manner 
That you most dread. You must hang; 
That is the decree : so make up your mind 
That you must prepare yourself to meet it. 

And. Well then, so let it be. 

I am the victim of misfortune, 
And she will pursue me to my grave, 
Ay, and even beyond, if she could. 
But I hope, by the grace of God, 
To shake her thence off of me, 
And at last be free of her. 

Enter Doctor Comfort. 
Ah, my dear, reverend sir, you are come too 
To take your last farewell of your poor friend. 
I do not know how I can thank you all 
For the love that you bear me : 
And this is the last time I expect 
To see you. Well, though we may never more 
Meet here on earth, I have still the thought 
Left me that we shall meet again in heaven. 
Oh, 'tis a dear thought to me, 
That I may meet a particular friend in heaven. 

Comf. So it should be, Andre. 

Blest be God for his infinite goodness, 

Praised be he for all-perfect government. 

He has no flaws in his government —like we — 

That is in the wisest man's power to discover, 

But His is perfectly divine, 

While man can but seek to imitate, 

Though he can never with his imperfections 

Hope to accomplish it. I hope you 

Are now fully prepared to meet your Maker, Andre, 



10 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT V. 

And that you have left nothing undone 

In this emergency. 
And. I am well prepared, sir, 

With all dear confidence to make my journey. 

Now I have no fear of being taken prisoner, 

Or of being intercepted on my lonesome way : 

The devil must now give me wide berth, 

For God's ministering angels hover around me. 

And guard me with their beneficence ; 

O, my friends, I can die easily now, 

Since I know there is no other way ; 

And if I have any regret to die 

It is that I must leave this world 

Before that I can explore its hidden beauties. 

And admire all the grandeur of this under globe. 

This is a beautiful world to leave forever, 

Still 'tis very prudish in me to complain, 

Since I now go to the country of countries, 

Where all the worlds travel to, 

And may explore the infinite secrets of the uni- 
verse. 

O, thou infinite universe ! thou hidden appalling 
mystery ! 

Thou mystery of mysteries ! how infinitesimal 

Is our knowledge of thee, 

That we can only guess thy secrets, 

By the dim appearance of a star, 

A moon, a sun, a satelite, 

Or by the planetary motion of 

A little world! why is it, 

That you only give us glimpses 

Of your mysterious mechanism, 

And not let us thoroughly see 

The powers that control ye ? 

Now I thank the God that gives me 

An opportunity to unravel the mysterious skein 

Of his works. At last I will have knowledge com- 
plete : 

Now I know nothing, or next to nothing, 

Of things that are divine. I will now go 

On this journey as cheerfully and expectantly 

As a young bride and groom go 

On their bridal journey. 
Com/. I am glad to see that you take 

Such a cheerful view of it, dear friend. 

Death should be nothing but a pleasure journey, 

Which we should all love to take 

When God sees fit to have us make it. 

Even as we love to make a journey home, 

To return to our loving friends, 



Scene 1.] benedict arnold the traitor. 41 

Whom we have been so long absent from. 

Now you do nothing but return home, 

After your sojourn here on earth, 

Which is but the same as leaving 

A foreign land to return to your native country. 
(Enter a waiter, with food). 

Ah, here is your breakfast, Andre. 
And. Ah, even so. 

This reminds us that we are yet on earth. 

And must minister to our bodies 

As well as to our souls. Come, Colonel, 

Come, reverend doctor, draw near, 

And let me invite you to take 

Some breakfast with me, as it is 

The last meal I will ever eat 

Here on earth. 
Haui. O, Andre, I could not eat now. 

The food would be to me like shavings, 

And tasteless, and as hard to eat. 
Comf. Nor do I wish to eat either, 

But I hope you will enjoy your meal. 
And. I see you are not philosophei-s, friends, 

Or you would not let sorrow move you; 

Nor are you stoics either, 

But you are nothing but men, 

With man's feelings, that feel for 

A man in his sorrow — 

But you shoidd not, gentlemen; 

You should be philosophers and soldiers, 

And take life even as they do. 

I have seen a soldier eat, 

With the body of a dead man 

For his table,- and with the groans 

Of his dying comrades as music 

To his banquet. Some reveler too, 

And were as jovial as they could be, 

And they were men, too, that a man 

Might justly have felt proud to fight with 

Or to command. 
Ham. That may have been, Andre, 

I do not doubt it in the least; 

But I must confess I am but 

A poor soldier this morning; 

And as for a philosopher, 

I am even such a one, I fear, 

As a woman might make 

If she was in love. 
And. Socrates, the ancient philosopher, after having 
been 

Condemned to death, wrote a treatise on 



42 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT V. 

The immortality of the soul, thus enjoying 
The happiest moments of his life just before 
He took his farewell of it. He kissed 
The cup out of which he drank the fatal hemlock. 
As if it contained the sweetest medicine ever 

given him, 
Knowing that his soul would enjoy eternal life. 
Now I do not profess to be a philospher 
As Socrates was, but I hope 
That I may follow his teachings, 
And his last example here on earth — 
Which was to die like a philosopher. 
Come, and try to eat anyway. 

We never know what we can do 
Unless we try. I feel as if 

I could eat a very hearty meal. 

Well, 1 will sit down and eat. 
Ham. J sincerely hope that you will enjoy it. 
Comf. And so do I. 

May it be as pleasing to you, 

As the ambrosia of heaven. 
And. Well, let's see what we have here. 

Ah, here is ham and eggs, and potatoes, 

And bread and butter, and coffee and liquor. 

Why this is a meal fit for a man 

To make his last exit from this earth. 
Ham. Alas, Andre, your life is a sad poem. 
Comf. So it is, indeed. 

Yet so all our lives are, 

As nearly as his is, 

If we were but to take time, 

And think over them. 
And. Well, I am now ready to die. 

I have already written my farewell letters 

To my mother and sister (heaven bless them !) 

And all my dearest friends. 

Give my regards to all my other friends, 

That may inquire for me, when I am gone. 

Remember me kindly to your commander-in-chief, 

And give him my thanks and gratitude 

For all the kindnesses he has done me. 

For you yourself, Hamilton, my dear friend, 

I do not know how to thank you enough, 

For all the kindnesses you have done me. 

Let me give you this token as 

A mark of esteem and friendship 

I have for you. It is a present 

From my angel mother, that she gave me 

When I was a little boy. 

I have worn it ever since, 



Scene I.] benedict arnold the traitor 43 

And a dearer token I have not 

In this wide world. I had always thought 

That I would take it with me 

To my grave, for I never thought 

That I would ever have such a dear friend 

With me in my last moments as you are, 

And that I would ever be willing 

To give it up to anyone: but now, 

I think I had better give it to you, 

That you may remember me by it. 

Here it is, Hamilton: take it, 

And think sometimes of your poor friend 

When he is dead and gone. 
Ham. I thank you most kindly, Andre, 

For this dear token that you give me. 

It will ever be as sacred to me 

As if my own mother had given it to me. 
And. And as for you, my dear reverend friend, 

Let me give you this little testament, 

A present from my dearest sister, 

That she gave me when I left her 

To make my fame and fortune in the wars. 

I know I could not give it 

In better hands, to one who will cherish it 

More than you. 
Com}'. I thank you, Andre. 

I'll cherish it as much as I do my family bible. 

God bless you, Andre, God bless you. 
Ham. What ! are you through with your breakfast '? 

O, dear friend ! you have not long to live. 

Every moment you may expect to be called forth. 
And. Do not grieve, for me, dear friend. 

When I die, I am most happy . 

When I live, I am most miserable. 

I can meet my fate like a man. 

O, dear Colonel, do not look so gloomy. 

You make this place look as gloomy 

As a dungeon. Try to be cheerful ; 

Try do ; 'tis nothing sorrowful to die 

If prepared for it. 

To the Guard. 

I am ready at any moment, gentlemen, 

To wait on you. 
Guard. You have half an hour yet to stay, sir. 

This I was bid communicate to you. 
And. Very well. 

You will see me to the last, I hope, my friends, 

I trust you will see me die, 

And say that Andre died as a brave man, 

For his king and his country. 



44 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT V. 

Com/. I'll be there, my friend, 

To comfort you with my presence, 
As much as I can. 
Ham. As much as I hate to see you die, 

I will, notwistanding, see you to the last. 
And. Thank you both 

Now then, let me be alone for 

A few moments, while I say my last prayer. 

Then come for me, and I will take 

My last leave of you, and poor Andre 

Will be nothing but a name. 

Till then, farewell. God bless you. 

[Exeunt. 
Epilogue. London. Twenty years after. Scene. — A 
room in a house. 
Present. Arnold, lying in bed, sick, attended 

By Margaret and Mary. 
Mary. 'E'll not last much longer, dear ; 'ell go pretty 
soon : this sleep that 'e 'as fallen h' into will be 
'is last. I've seen many men die, h'and they h'all 
go h'off just h'about the same— that h'is when 
they die natural. Well, your 'usband 'as lived 'is 
time; that's some consolation : 'e's dying natural- 
ly ; that's more consolation : 'e might, you know, 
'ave died by violence h'or h'accident, h'and that 
would 'ave been 'orrible h'indeed, h'awfully so : 
so taking h'everything together, h'it's not h'as 
bad, h'as h'it might 'ave been.- 
Mar. You may leave me now, Mary. 

He's awaking and I would be alone 
With him in his last moments. 
Mary Very well, dear, just h'as you say. 

You h'ought to let me stay with you though to be 
some consolation to you, you know but h'of 
course h'if you wish I should go, I will. I don't 
want to be in your way, 'eaven knows, I don't. 

[Exit. 
Mar. How do you now, dear husband ? do you 
Not feel somewhat better? Oh, I cannot 
Believe this is death. 
Am. Nay, dear wife, do not grieve for me, 
But help me to look death calmly in 
The face. I feel that I must now die, 
That all nature in me has run out her course, 
And that soon all life will have become extinct. 
Now do not grieve for what will happen. 
It is better that I should die. 
Mar. Nay, dear husband, you kill me 
When you talk so. Let me weep. 
If nothing else, for that is all 



Scene I.] benedict arnold the traitor. 45 

That I can now do. 
Am. Well, weep then, if you will. 

You are the only one that ever will. 
Not a man will mourn for me 
When I am gone : not a soul 
Will shed an humble tear 
When I am dead. Not a voice 
Will speak a word of sympathy for me ; 
Not a single one will honor me, 
Or follow me to my grave. 
But I will even go to my grave 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
Well, it is meet, I know, I should go so. 
I have myself to blame ; I have no right 
To expect anything different. 
Mar. Dear husband, do not think of such things. 
If no one else will mourn for you, 
You know I will. I'll mourn for you 
Until I die. 
Am. Yes, Peggy, I know you will; 

More than I deserve: it would have 
Been better for you if you had never 

Known me: I have blighted your life 

As well as my own. O, Peggy, I wish 

I had another life to live ! I would 

Live quite different if I had, I assure you. 

I have lived a misspent life, and it would 

Have been better if I had never been born. 

Well, it is too late now. 

I have lived, and I must now die. 
Mar. How do you now, dear husband? 
Am. I feel so easy and so quiet; 

There is such a a calm and serene feeling 

That now possesses me, that this life 

That has been tossed about in such 

A turbulent and tempestuous sea, 

Now ebbs itself out without any pain. 

Ah, Peggy, if you knew how easy 'tis 

To die, you would not grieve for me. 

I would not live another day if I could. 
Mar. Alas, I always thought what pain 

It must be to die. Then you do not suffer? 

Strange. I thought that when the soul was pre- 
paring 

To leave the body, there must be a terrible feeling. 

One that would seem to rent the body in twain ; 

Or a feeling of such dread vacancy 

That would make the body collapse 

As to give one most dreadful pain ; 

Or a darkness of such dire obscurity 



46 BENEDICT ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. [ACT V. 

That would make the body a pit of hell, 

After all the soul's light had departed. 
Arn. Nay, Peggy, 'tis none of these. 

Nothing but a sense of ease and weariness, 

As if all life was running out of me slowly, 

And in a steady and even stream. 

I will go, flit away like a summer's day, 

With as slow and calm an exit, 

That when I am once gone, 

You will hardly know how I went. 

Well, I am an old man now, 

And have had enough time to think over 

And repent of the misdeeds of mj- life. 

I have lived long enough to know 

What it is to be without a country. 

Heaven knows I have wished a thousand times, 

Yea, thousands upon thousands of times, 

That I had never betrayed my country. 

I never knew what it was to have one 

Until I lost it. Now no country so dishonored 

That will own me. Even England, 

To whom I gave myself up, 

Is sick of me, and no doubt wishes 

That she was well ridden of me. 

Well, I can not blame her. 

But, America, my own country, if I could 

Only call you so, I would give all the world 

If I had it to give, if I could only 

See you once more before I die. 

But it can never be. 

He sinks into a slumber. 
Mar. O, God, can he be dead ! 

O, husband, speak to me, if you 

Are yet alive. 
Arn. O, dreary way, that I have now to travel. 

O, darkness, dreary darkness. 

Give me light, light, light. 

Good wife, dear Margaret, kind loving Peggy, 

Where are you, my sweet, my lovely soldier bride ? 

I can not see you. 
Mar. Alas, dear husband, I am here. 

Can you not see me ? Can you not 

Feel me? My arms are folded 'round you. 

O, God ! can death then be so near ? 
Arn. Ah, Peggy, 'tis you I know 

By your soft and loving voice. 

I can not see you, but I feel you. 

My eyes have become already dimmed. 

O, God ! but for one moment of light. 

Ha! what light does nicker on me, 



Scene I.] benedict arxold the traitor. 47 

Brighter than the brightest star in the universe. 
'Tis even so : my eyes can yet distinguish light 
'Tis my sweet, my darling Peggy's lovely eyes 
That look so lovingly on me. Alas, alas, "sweet 

vision, 
It has already become dim. 
'Tis faded, 'tis gone. All is oblivion. 

Mar. O, dear husband. I am still here. 

Your own dear wife fondly caresses you. 

Am. O God, my country, — liberty — independence. 
Traitor — my country — O God ! my wife, 
I am dead. [Dies. 

Mar. O. ray husband, he is dead. 

God, forgive him, and have mercy 
On his soul. 

(She falls on his body in a swoon.) 
Re-enter Alary. 
Mary. 'Es dead h'at last. I told you so. 

H'oh, poor woman, she 'as fallen h'into a swoon. 

1 'eard this poor man's 'istory. 'E was a traitor 
to 'is country. H'it seems to me that I could see 
the word traitor branded h'on 'is fore'ead h'in 
words h'of fire. God 'ave mercy h'on the h'un- 
fortunate wretch. 'Es to be pitied most sincerely, 
he is. 

[the end] 



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